


Nocturne

by deargrace



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1860's, Angst and Feels, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Hatred, heavily inspired by romanticism and impressionism, kind of, period differences, possible happy ending, self acceptance issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27604013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deargrace/pseuds/deargrace
Summary: On the brink of spring's arrival, Alexander started to slowly admit his new purpose of life, which was sinking more and more into himself, suffocating between the walls of his house, and the fact that there was no new beginning waiting for him beneath the dawn, because when he crumbled apart and began to collect himself back, he couldn't find the most important pieces.Yet, the new season seems to give him more than he could ever wish for.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you may had seen this one on my page before. I decided to change characters and settings a bit. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading!

The sun peppered his body with deep and warm invisible kisses and the cool grass, in which he was sitting, tickled the naked pair of his forearms and elbows and sent adorable shivers down his spine whenever he shifted. Frankly, he's always liked spring and its idea of annual rebirth. 

He had his back pressed against the trunk of a tall, old birch tree, which, at the moment, was completely supporting his weight. The poet's entire body seemed to be entirely relaxed under the glowing sunshine and the white, black scarred landmark of his personal microcosmos, which he loved so very keenly, beamed in the flirty afternoon as its glistening leaves illuminated shadows across Alexander's pale face and skin, here and then casting sharp contrasts between lights and shadows on the soft canvas of his young features. The yellow painter far up in the heavens had an especially tender hand with his brush on this day, and the poet could almost tell he felt its light touches. Simply, it was a beautiful day. 

Alexander had his eyes closed for quite a while now and a merely noticeable smile danced on his beams pecked lips. A small leather book was loosely held between his fingers, resting wide open on his lap where he left it to catch a nap. Wind played with silver leaves, blank pages and his umber hair and the sensible, yet comfortable weight of a pencil behind his ear was already forgotten countless minutes ago as he was now nearly snoozing and enjoying the late, spring midday.

The poet's mind flew through the white cotton bundles of clouds above him in the blues, head slightly tilted skywards, subconsciously drifting away into a slumber, allowing the narrow river in front of him to take his thoughts away with its flow, harmonising with the wounded tree and silently prompting the wind to caress him just a little bit more. 

Calmed by the fizzing of the running water and the gentle touch sun was so generously offering, his ears failed to register a pair of footsteps coming behind the birch, making their way through the grass right towards him. 

"Good afternoon, Alexander," said a mellow voice behind the tree, directly seeking the poet's attention.

Alexander opened his eyes slowly, lashes fluttering, and blinked a few times, for the sun found it's painful way in, stabbing and making him white blinded for several moments. He didn't register the vanishing of his smile when he landed back to reality. His dark orbs shrank rapidly. Alexander himself noted the latter's presence without showing any mark of doing so, and without sparing him a glance, he closed the opened pages and moved the book away from his lap, taking a single last brief look at the flowing river. He didn't want to face the necessary just yet. The water sang a beautiful melody, foaming and dancing through the bed, the sound of wind and leaves completing her like a grand orchestra. The volume was just loud enough to drown out the cacophony in his head. He thought that it would be so relieving to jump straight in and get carried away. He was still so tired. 

"Afternoon, Oliver," the saying fell from his lips so tenderly, sounding like a choked whisper. Alexander cringed upon that. He didn't speak much the past few days as his maid left for her own house for a few days, and his formerly planned nap did certainly not do any good to his sore throat. It seemed as if his voice remembered its existence just seconds before speaking. Which was perhaps true. 

He coughed harshly, clearing his throat, and lifting his eyes with a welcoming smile across his lips, he turned his head sideways, where he expected Oliver to stand. When he acknowledged the visible, both his expression and stomach dropped at the exact same time. It wasn't just the blond man who stood hovering above him. A sensation of fear and confusion crushed over him like a frigid wave of realisation and his eyes instantly jumped at the stranger next to his friend. His brows perked upwards and orbs tripled their size as he quickly looked the unknown man down from head to toe. He didn't look much threatening though. He was young, barely twenty five years old. And reeked of wealth.

Alexander removed his look from the man's friendly smile to point it back at Oliver and met his eyes, silently asking for explanation. He was agitated, at least to say. 

"Who…"

"This is Thomas Gray, Alexander, my dear friend. I'm not sure if you do remember, but I talked about him a couple of times," Oliver smiled, placing his hand on the shoulder of the grinning gentleman, anticipation written all over his face as he watched Alexander's eyes travel back on the stranger. He was testing the waters, trying to see where the line was, Alexander knew it. Maybe he should have told him he was standing right on it. 

"Oh," the poet's mind flicked quickly, tone hushed. He recognised the unfamiliarly familiar name. "I see…," he tried hard to chew on the whole situation, "you certainly did talk about introducing someone by that name to me- I remember." His voice was careful, not quite sure what to expect. His eyes danced between the men. Judging by his body language, Oliver was nervous, too. 

"It's pleasure to meet you, Mr Turner," the youth joined in, a friendly smile plastered on his sharp features, "I have wondered how is the romantic poet like in person," Alexander was up on his feet when the other finished talking, brushing brown dust off his dark trousers. The black pencil fell down from the spot behind his ear. He offered the latter a hand to shake with blank expression. Though hearing the sound of the naming was rather unpleasant to him, there wasn't a reason to blame the man's tone for it. 

"The pleasure is on my side," he huffed, "but tell me, does Oliver talk about me in such a way?" his eyes shifted to the blond man for a mere moment, sharply questioning. 

"Not quite often, but he does...somewhat," Gray nodded, "although blame the papers for this particular one. They used to be quite a church bell when it came to your poetic persona."

Alexander cracked a low, close-mouthed chuckle, closing his eyes briefly, "really incredible, the newspapers are, don't you think, Mr Gray? What else did they say about me? I gave up on those a long time ago." He could almost feel the air around Oliver quiver in discomfort as the blond shifted. In all honesty, Alexander would pay a quid to see what was going on inside his mind. 

He seemed to confuse Gray by his words, and he truly didn't expect anything else. Alexander saw the hesitation and confusion, his eyes gave him up. Only to his surprise, the silence was just a bit too quiet. Alexander thought that maybe he overstepped some kind of a line himself too. Then he realised he couldn't care less. 

"Alexander-," 

"Oliver, please," he shot him a glance. He saw that coming, but letting him cause a scene was the last ingredient towards a recipe for a disaster. Oliver raised his eyebrows and the seconds before he spoke again seemed like eternity. The blond let him, freeing him from his eyelock. 

"Let me invite you to my house, gentlemen," Alexander smiled, "be my guests." 

From the corner of his eye he caught Oliver exhaling deeply, closing his eyes in a silent agreement. Gray nodded, though his face was blank. Alexander's gaze lingered on him just a tad longer, which was a mistake, for their eyes met immediately. It hit him then that he didn't save the situation at all. Mr Gray had eyes the shade of blue which would cut you if you looked in them for too long. Alexander was already bleeding. 

"Well then, lead Mr Gray to the house, Oliver, please. I'll catch you in a minute." 

"I'll put the kettle on," the blond turned away, guiding the other along the way, "don't be late." 

Alexander watched them go, and when they were out of his sight, he turned around towards the calm surface with a sigh. Apart from its steady movement, the river was calm as ever. The poet thought that if his soul was ever meant to represent a thing, it would be the serene water.

He stood there for a few moments, then turned around and silently headed back to the house. It was a few hours later he realised he forgot his notebook there.

-

Stepping inside the narrow hallway of his home was harder than ever for Alexander, it felt like he and the building were two magnets, which should never really meet. Truly, it shouldn't have been so surprising. When he aimed his feet straight to the kitchen, the silence in his ears felt agonizing. His dark, worn out shoes clapped on the wooden floor. The smell of his kitchen greeted him between the doorframe like a loving mother embracing her child and on that occasion, it was the only fact that told him he was home. He stepped inside and a keen sight of Oliver and Gray in the middle of a dialogue spreaded in front of him. Yet when they noticed the poet's presence, all eyes were on him. He decided to play it off the best way possible. He had nothing left to lose but his good manners, after all. Plus Mr Gray seemed like a decent man. Oliver's good friend, even. He also doubted Oliver would bring a problem to his porch.

"I see you got comfortable," he smiled, taking off his suit jacket. With burning expectations he could only predict the way the meeting would go. His whole body was unnecessary tense before any of them spoke next.

"We were just talking about how beautiful this landscape is," Mr Gray spoke, leaning against the back of the kitchen chair. Alexander suspected that his statement was a lie, judging by the way Oliver shifted, but ate the bait and took the friendly approach. 

"It is my father's property," he started, hesitating, "I own just a minimum of this land - house and its bare surroundings. But I would rather sell it all if it meant that everything else would be under my sight." 

"Frankly, I can see why," Gray smiled softly. 

Alexander wasn't sure what he was searching for in his eyes, it was maybe more simple than that - he was diving into the blues more and more, like a boy reaching for the sky with his small hands. And when he proceeded to turn away and walk towards the stove, it felt like he was still caught in the moment, tangled in the blues. He shook the feeling away swiftly. 

"I think it's the right time to ask what is the true point of your visit?" he asked, facing the two men with his back while occupying himself in a search for his porcelain tea set in the wall mounted cupboard next to the stove. It was a sunny day, however, it was still rather quite windy, so the heat was comfortable. 

"I wanted you to meet Thomas, Alexander, it's simple as that, really," Oliver chuckled.

"Why didn't you say anything then?" Alexander stopped the rattling, hands wrapped around the sides of the glass lidded box full of porcelain. He was too angry to not take that chance to bite, "it is polite to announce your visit beforehand." 

"Because I knew what your answer would be," he could hear the blond trying not to raise his voice. Alexander knew he should cool off as well.

"I have my reasons, Oliver, thank you," he gripped the box harder, voice on edge. The water was almost boiling. He could hear the latter taking a breath before speaking and cut him off sharply, "don't." And Oliver didn't. The water started to boil, the kettle broke into loud screaming and something in Alexander snapped. He set the kettle off, put the porcelain in front of his guests and his own seat and poured the tea in, all in a swift motion and silence.

As he sat down, he didn't expect Mr Gray to start talking: 

"I am a writer myself too, Mr Turner. And I'm quite mesmerized by your talent," he said, eyes pinned on him. Alexander took the risk and shot him a glance too. He seemed untouched by his and Oliver's heated exchange of words, which seemed strange. The colour of his eyes was dangerous, he already knew that.

"So you've read my collection?" Alexander asked softly.

"I did! And the newspaper's piece too," he nodded with a light smile.

"That was a long time ago…," perhaps the saying raised more red flags in his mind than it should had and his next words were filled to the brim with suspiciousness, "so you must know me for a while. Why meeting me now?" 

"I picked up poetry just recently and in fact, it was Oliver who prompted me to come. To be honest, I would never suggest it on my own."

Sparking Alexander's demand for further information, he prompted him to elaborate on his last sentence, saying: "truly? Why's that?" 

"He's right," Oliver jumped in, "Thomas thought it would be too personal. And you were also quite a big fish that time. Too busy to arrange a meeting." 

Alexander chuckled, sipping his tea, "I'm certain time wouldn't be an issue."

"Hm. There were times I wondered if we were still friends," the blond melted into a nifty smile, sinking his head between his shoulders, watching him.

"You're over-exaggerating," Alexander answered, giving him a hard look, yet remaining somewhat cheeky. "I just had other interests to...pursue." 

That happened to break the mood, the happy climax never came.

"And now you have none to do so."

Alexander sighed, looking at the edge of the mahogany wood, almost blankly. Melancholia dranked him down instantly. "I'm just being careful." 

"I'd call it scared." 

The poet shot him a glance. The layers of tension could be cut into pieces in that moment and the room would still be stuffed by it. 

"So wha-,"

"I wouldn't call that scared, Oliver." Alexander almost forgot they were not alone in the room and the sound made him almost flinch, only a mere instinct shaping the sudden want to flight into an action, turning his body to face Mr Gray. His voice made him shiver nevertheless.

"It's not fair to blame a man for his circumspection." 

The table was dipped in silence and ticking anticipation on all tips of their small shared triangle for a while, Alexander mostly taking in the words, making his own personal outcome of them.

Oliver spoke then, rather sharply saying: "but that's exactly where you're wrong, Thomas. You see, the core of Alex's problem is the beginning of it. It's not circumspection, it's fear."

Alexander's mind crossed the thought he should defend himself there, but he kept sitting in complete silence, gulping down his own assumption of what could Gray possibly say next. It was simple oblivion which made him stand up for him, Alexander told himself. Curiosity made him restless and he started to shift, playing with his fingers. Was it selfish he wanted the argument to keep going just for the pure sake of hearing someone defending him? 

"It still doesn't change a thing. The principle is the same; fear makes us do things, Oliver, you can't deny nor change that. But the things it makes you do, they lie in your own hands. That you can change. And if you choose to be cautious, it's the better outcome."

Alexander was left flabbergasted, staring at the latter, absently picking at his nails. The realisation landed on him and he thought that the man in front of him couldn't possibly know his past at all. It wasn't a question of passive aggressive mocking either, he was completely oblivious. He tried to go over the words again in his head, yet he arrived at the same conclusion once more. It irked him to ask and he couldn't fight the devil of temptation longer, so he proceeded to do so:

"How much do you know about me?" he asked, looking up to meet his eyes and as he did so, the immediate eye contact startled him. The deepness of the pair of two pale larimars was hypnotizing. 

"What do you mean by that?" there was a pinch of hesitation in his tone, Alexander caught it, and it instantly made him wonder if the other was trying to hide something. What exactly did he know about him? 

And then Oliver ruined everything when he stood up, breaking the mystery tension between the men.

"Excuse me but I am afraid I have to go now, I have some things I have to do and I'm slowly running out of time," he said, putting on his suit jacket, "thank you for the tea, Alexander. Will you lead me to the door?" 

"Yes, of course," Alexander uttered, bewildered. It was strange.

As he led Oliver to the front door, the thought there was something wrong was slowly pushing further to the front and spread itself, slowly raising panic in his brain. He started to feel dizzy. When they stepped outside, the blond turned towards him, looking him straight in the eyes, gripping his shoulders firmly. It startled Alexander.

"Thomas is a good man," Oliver said and his eyes were so serious Alexander had to swallow the hard way, "I know you are suspicious of him, but give him a chance, please." 

Alexander wasn't sure what an appropriate answer from his sleeve shall be to such a statement, so he simply stared back at his friend, pondering. Oliver's touch felt neither nice nor uncomfortable, but he was starting to feel small between his arms, their height difference adding to the effect. His words bounced across his mind like a distanced echo. He swallowed the urge to launch back inside.

"Goodbye, Ollie," he said, taking a step back.

Oliver sighed, "Goodbye, Alex."

Alexander was left standing on his porch alone, just the bleak echo of Oliver's words reminding him his presence just countless seconds ago. It was still warm outside. He turned around, stopping between the door frame. The fact that someone was still in his house waiting in the kitchen for him made his stomach drop into an endless abyss and agitated him. He closed the door behind himself and paused again in the hallway, taking in a long breath. He walked inside with his spine full of needles and anticipations, but Mr Gray wasn't seated at the table like minutes ago. That set him off his lined rails and dropped an anvil down his windpipe. His eyes crossed the room in fast one motion and found the man in front of a painting on the wall opposite the window, calming his panic. The poet stopped right behind the door sill, slightly leaning against the wall, eyes locked on the slim man in front of him.

Gray noticed his presence, though his attention remained focused on the framed painting.

"Oliver has incredible talent, doesn't he?" 

Alexander blinked a few times, sinking into the new settings of their little situation. So far he did a decent job of creating a good image in the man's eyes, he couldn't let it slip away now. Proceeding to walk towards the table, he felt like explaining, "yes...very lovely, this particular piece. It was a gift," he spoke, taking the cups and placing them into the sink, then, rethinking that decision right away, he took two out, asking if the other wanted more tea.

"Gladly, if you insist," he smiled, turning towards Alexander and seating himself at the table.

"We actually met when Oliver was still studying," Alexander paused, "uh," he shrugged, "black?" the latter nodded, "you can say I've seen the worst and the best of him," he smiled softly, remembering the old times. "I am afraid we have to wait," he put the kettle on and fed the fire with more wood. It wasn't so hot inside anymore.

"Then we wait." 


	2. Chapter 2

Some say it takes only ten seconds or even less to decide whether you like somebody or not. Alexander on the other hand always tried to deviate from such a type of conclusion since he got burned several times. Trust was a thin line. So as he sat in his kitchen, facing Mr Gray, they still had a blank page, yet to tell a story. Although it was somewhat impossible to remain objective. He was of a strong character and Alexander liked that in people. He was also modest, too. People liked to play that way, he knew that too.

Whilst the kettle started heating up, Mr Gray talked about how he met Oliver. Perhaps it would be an enjoyable story if Alexander didn't struggle to stay as far as possible from his own doormat of fantasies, which he already knew was a lost battle. Somewhere in the first quarter of his story, he already wasn't listening. The paranoia he would be backstabbed in his own kitchen was pushed backwards only by the mere fact he was very well aware Oliver would never mislead him like that. He didn't dare to think about the probability that Oliver himself was perhaps oblivious to all of this and was just a pawn in the horrible scenario. 

In the meantime, water started to boil and Alexander snapped from his sceptical train of thought. Standing up with sudden celerity, he rushed himself straight towards the yelling kettle. He had a feeling he would stay glued to the chair shouldn't the movement be exaggerated. It was a mistake, he later realised, as he swayed a little when reaching the stove, almost burning himself. He also realised Mr Gray was still talking. Removing the kettle from the stove, Alexander poured the water in each cup and shyly breathed in the smell. The exotic aroma always had this calming effect on him, which was perhaps the culprit behind his tea addiction. 

Placing the beverage on the mahogany, he only added sugar since there was no milk left and as much as Alexander liked the taste of it, he found going to the cellar very bothersome. He didn't ask Mr Gray if he would fancy some milk, and perhaps he should have, like a good host, but he sat down again in silence, only looking at him briefly when passing him his cup. Gray wasn't talking anymore and his eyes were watching him. It hit him it was his turn to say something, but he found it immensely difficult; he already forgot what even the small bit he heard told about. Mr Gray let him soak in his awkward situation for a while before saying anything.

"Mr Turner, am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked, eyes still cruelly pinned on his. Alexander deserves it, but he also wasn't making it easier for him. The question sounded genuine though.

Alexander was certain the man, as much as he did, didn't truly want to hear the truth, still, he hesitated, "no, no, you don't. I am just tired. I did not sleep well last night." 

Mr Gray shifted in his seat and his sharp features melted a little. He also looked away. "You should have said it earlier, I wouldn't keep you busy so long and let you rest. I am sorry about that." 

How the tables have turned, Alexander thought. "It's alright," he shrugged, "I appreciate company." There, he wasn't sure if he lied or not.

The room was quiet for a while, basking in the sunlight, and it was an uncomfortable silence. Gray then asked again:

"What you asked me earlier; I know you are a great writer. I once found your poem in some newspaper and became very fond of your writing. When Oliver suggested this meeting, I was firstly hesitant, you stood on a high pedestal, but now I see you're a man just like me. I am glad I met you, Mr Turner." 

Alexander wasn't sure if that was an answer he wanted to hear, but he took it anyways. He still had a feeling there was something significant missing in his story. "Like I said, pleasure is on my side," he said, sipping his tea. It tasted oddly strange. "So you said you are a writer yourself too?" 

"Exactly," the latter beamed, "I started writing because of you, you are sort of my inspiration."

Alexander shifted his eyes, managing to resist an eyeroll. He for sure knew how to compliment. Only that Alexander knew better not to fall for it. Perhaps Gray was just some wishful, so called writer, he's met those before. Honestly, it would be a much more annoying outcome.

"Did you mean what you said earlier? The thing about fear." Did he even want to know?

"Of course I did," the other answered, smiling. And of course he would say that. Alexander settled with that, too tired to question further. But what Gray said next surprised him.

"I think you are a brave man."

It was like a cold bath on a summer day, the one that hits you hard when you think you were ready but in reality you were not. And it was just what you needed. Alexander hoped the other didn't notice exactly that. Their eyes met instantly and he sank into them. They were dangerous, but gentle. 

"Thank you." He had a dozen other words he wanted to say instead, but he couldn't. It felt like he was frozen and forced himself to drink the whole cup just to get out of there. It scared him the other was still looking at him. When he picked up his courage back and looked him in the eyes again, Gray was smiling. He looked young, almost made him wonder if there truly could be something wicked inside him. 

"May I ask, how old are you?" 

"Twenty two," Gray answered with such a different tone Alexander realised he may have mistaken his question for a challenge. 

Alexander made a small nod, sliding his eye towards the latter's cup, then back at him, "I thought you were younger, seems like we are almost the same age." 

Gray didn't say anything back and even though Alexander had no chance to see it, he still felt the blues watching him. It started to annoy him. After a few seconds, he heard a mellow laugh. 

"I must tell, you are a lot different than I imagined you to be," he said, taking a sip from his porcelain.

"How come?" Alexander shifted, feeling like doing so out of nowhere, watching the man and waiting for him to elaborate. 

"Don't get me wrong, please, but I already had this picture in my head, which Oliver helped me create with his stories about you. And I thought this persona in my mind does not quite resonate with your art, yet now I see you certainly do represent what you create." 

Alexander took a moment to swallow all of what he just said, leading to another blank space of silence. If there was a white space on their page minutes ago, Alexander now drew a big question mark in there. 

"Truly?" came out of him then, "nobody has ever told me that." He wasn't completely sure if he understood the meaning correctly, even though it was pretty simple. Perhaps he was overthinking again. It seemed he was doing so all the time.

"Well, who am I to judge on our first meeting, but I personally believe that the first impression is critical and you made me reconsider my assumptions." 

"What exactly?" Alexander asked so urgently it even surprised him. He instantly regretted it. 

"Huh? Pardon me?"

"What assumptions in particular?"

"Oh, right, well...you seem much more approachable, I suppose. Not so intimidating, not as far as I picked up from Oliver's tellings," he answered, then he added with a giggle, "you are also shorter than I imagined."

Alexander smiled softly, watching the latter's cheerful expression. The comic relief was in place, he had to give him that. 

The conversation went smoothly from then to Alexander's surprise and even made him forget his lack of sleep and paranoiac what if's at the back of his mind. Though it all went down when Mr Gray asked on the matter of for how long has the house been in his possession.

"It has been a few months," he frowned, already growing tense. He had a feeling which path was the conversation strolling. It wasn't a pleasant one. 

"And you live here alone?"

"No, I have a maid," Alexander said, standing quickly and picking up his finished cup, moving towards the other one, "she is off to her family for a while." 

"It always felt strange to me, you see, why the countryside of everything else when-" 

"I think that's fairly clear," Alexander chuckled sharply, "I am a poet, it comes to me naturally." Placing the cups into the sink, he stayed still, facing the other with his back. He felt it was better like that. 

"No, I meant the timing. It was so sudden, you almost vanished-"

"Sometimes I wish I did." He was nearly certain Gray knew everything. They danced around it the full evening, the latter was too informed and considerate for someone who was just a fan and a fellow writer. He came here with double intentions, wasn't a saint like Oliver made out of him. Alexander risked his chances and turned around, knowing he had his eyes on him, meeting in the middle. He looked shocked and sat still, looking like a sculpture. It stopped Alexander before saying the words he wanted to say the whole time. Something broke inside Alexander and the ice walls around him melted, he was fast to hide his eyes between his fingers, swallowing a curse. This was maybe too much, he didn't actually intend to make a scene. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap."

"No, no, that's fine," the latter started slowly, "I am at fault, I shouldn't have asked, I'm sorry."

The poet sighed, leaning against the sink, feeling like punching something, "I just- I...I don't like to talk about it." 

"That's completely reasonable, don't worry about it. I should have noted you were uncomfortable, I apologize." 

Alexander stayed silent, not moving a muscle. Then, Mr Gray shifted and it took Alexander a moment to realise he was standing up.

"Perhaps I should go, it's getting late." 

And Alexander let him go, completely silent. Suddenly, he wanted the man to disappear as fast as possible.

"Well then," he exhaled the words out in one go, making it more dramatic, which perhaps wasn't his intention, and walked on arm reach to Alexander, offering him his hand, "it was splendid meeting you."

"You too," the latter answered briefly, shaking his hand, only meeting his eyes for a second. 

"Call me Thomas, please."

Alexander looked at him again, just enough to confirm what he heard, it was unexpected, "Alexander, then." 

He sat in the kitchen for a long time after Thomas left. Something flicked in his brain, something he couldn't put his finger on. He felt it though. He was also still conflicted if it was right to shake hands with him. It was like tossing a coin by your own hand, only for the sides being multiplied and with no pleasant outcome. In the end, he could only hope for the lesser evil. He felt like it was always like that with him. There was also this devil sitting on his shoulder, reminding him Thomas appeared as a decent man and Alexander could lie as much as he wanted, yet the fact he was glad Oliver pushed him like that couldn't be denied. Either way, there was still a missing piece to their shared puzzle. And the question mark endured. 

-

Alexander used to have such types of days where he wasn't able to write a single verse. Now, it wasn't something new, nothing unusual. He blamed it mainly on his conditions, headaches or incapability to concentrate, for instance. Although it had felt different since he moved to the river house. Like a miserable eternity. It took a toll on him, too. 

Alexander was seated at this desk in his room upstairs, accompanied by a lukewarming cup of tea, which he almost forgot about by this time, on his right hand and german literature on the other. There was a narrow window behind his restless appearance, which silk, dirty mellow curtains almost draped over with their translucent arms, the thing playing a gloomy scene of grey toned weeping. The rain was quiet and if Alexander should step closer, small raindrops would be visible, racing down the glass in uneven patterns and groups whilst drumming a melancholic tune, tapping and hitting the glass pane in a steady rhythm, finishing on the windowsill. He liked the sound. The sky was hidden behind countless bundles of clouds and led the mourning choir, colouring the bleak dust even more monochromatic. He anticipated a storm would start any minute. His mother would say death is strolling through their land again.

The room was sharply coated in deep spots of oranges and blacks, a tall, white candle burnt lonely on the desk near his cold beverage in thin silence, illuminating Alexander's face and nearby objects, modifying their shadow into a single ink smudge, vibrant. 

Frankly, Alexander's mind couldn't be one hundred percently focused on the literature, since the whistling wind outside, headache and particular letter he had received this morning were chewing a large bite of it. It was several days after Oliver and Thomas visited. Alexander was still alone in the river house, Josephine was expected to arrive by the next day's morning. Henceforth, Alexander had to deal with the postman himself, he met him in front of the house when he was returning from his everyday visit to the riverside. The fact he received a letter was a significant surprise itself enough, yet only to be beaten by another one right away. He didn't see a letter from Thomas Gray coming at all. To be honest, it sent chills down Alexander's back when he read the name.

Now, the writing was sitting lonely on Sonnets near a small tower of great romanticists, bathing in the candlelight. The crimson seal was still untouched. 

Alexander was greatly puzzled, not quite able to figure out what it could mean (that didn't mean he had his assumptions). Although the answer was right in front of him, only waiting to be read, he couldn't bring himself to open it. He wasn't sure what was holding him back, but could not help to feel anxious and smothered every time he looked at the ivory envelope. He feared the worst, albeit there shouldn't be a justified explanation for how scared he was to open a letter from a person who showed him nothing but keenes so far. It could have been a plain charade, he kept on his mind. It wasn't his fault he felt like that. It was still painfully showing him how insecure he had become.

Even though his thoughts were halfly occupied by the blunt pain and exhaustion and the reality he had no time to sober up from his afternoon nap (and also feeling rather displeased and despondent), they kept orbiting the blue tinted glass shade of his eyes from the very moment he learned the sender's name. Alexander had the feeling he would see himself so clearly, like in a mirror, should they invade such proximity. Feeling embarrassed everytime he fell back into that sinful momentum, he blamed it on the freshness of the occasion. It was completely rational to reminisce about a new acquaintance. In such a manner though? He didn't dare to answer. 

Thomas appeared gentle, yet daring, and also clever. It was all falling under a type. Ans the eyes. Alexander couldn't even begin.

He turned to the next page. Goethe was, least to say, an interesting reading. Alexander fancied the idea of having someone like Werther in his life. There was indeed something appealing in the imaginary of being somebody's orbit, because even with the world turned upside down, there still was one constant. Selfish, it was, he knew that. Alexander wasn't a fan of blinded love, but a small certainty in overall chaos sounded particularly nice.

Sighing quietly, he closed the book and luckily this time, he didn't forget to slip in a piece of paper between the pages. He put it aside near the humble peak of books and stood up, leading himself and the unfinished tea, which's handle he loosely took between his fingers, almost spilling it on his carpet, downstairs. It seemed as though the rain outside doubled its mourning, sounding so angry as it continued to whip the roof and windows. So desperately violent.

Somewhere in the middle of the stairs, he went back for the letter. 

The cold leftover of his black tea was poured down the sink and Alexander then sat himself on a dark dusty green coloured settee in his living room, neatly placed near the wall, facing two, same toned armchairs and a humble fireplace. He lit the fire and threw in some more wood. In a few moments, the room began to glow in a growing orange-yellowish hue. Alexander left the curtains drawn since the other night, so even the fading light behind the grey palette of a late gloomy evening couldn't seek in. It was all fading to black.

The living room was fairly equipped and decorated. Tall, empty coffee brown toned vase stood on the fireplace, several thin books, which, if asked, Alexander truly wasn't able to name, and a large, antique bust created of marble were making it a suitable company. The pair of armchairs occupied the sofa from a bit too far distance, both slightly tilted to shape an unfinished circle. In the middle stood a long and thin, walnut coffee table, which wasn't quite serving its purpose, considering the room was barely used these days. 

Alexander targeted perhaps a bit too much attention on examining Thomas' handwriting on the front side. When he caught himself doing so, he flipped it in his hands and threw it on the table, turning his face towards the window. Seeing the thick fabric of curtains was never a bigger surprise. Embarrassment filled him again. The logs started to crack. For a while then, Alexander took a pleasure at watching the burning of the wood in the fire, reconsidering. The oranges seemed to be hypnotising and he could almost feel their warmth on his naked skin. It was a pleasant view. And when he sank deeper into the cushions of the soft settee, much later in the night, and breathed in the familiar scent of clove, books, and cracking wood, he was certain this was a place he could call home. There was no better agreement than the tingle running across his back.

Truth is, Alexander used to hate this house with all the passion in his heart back in the past. He despised the times he was forced to spend here, his childhood and youth, the dark corners and cold walls, the scary sounds coming from the cellar and his father's heavy footsteps on the stairs, echoing through the whole building. Hate resembled a truly strong emotion, one which he didn't dare to name very often, and he saved it just for a few things in his life. But since he'd moved in here and started the process of his personal mental revival, it washed away all of the reminiscence of fear, quivering hands and goosebumps imprinted on his pale skin. There was not a single doubt some of the memories stayed with him, glued to his shadow till the very last sunset of his life, nevertheless, he was able to make a second impression with his own property. Josephine's presence helped too. He shall be thankful to his destiny at least for that. 

When he grabbed the letter again, Alexander couldn't but look at the handwriting again. Calling it just a pure curiosity. He didn't have to be an expert to see that Thomas was an educated man. Glancing at the red seal then, which was perhaps a bit old fashioned, it all fell in together like the last couple of puzzle pieces. The address, name, clothing. It was obvious, now when he saw it. Thomas didn't belong to an ordinary class then. It started to get interesting.

It hit him too that the letter seemed all too nice and glittery, it gave Alexander an alarming shiver. His stomach twisted painfully. Not able to resist anymore, he cut the seal open with a tiny knife, unfolded the soft paper and began to read.

Not in a million years could Alexander had predicted it to be an invitation to a ball. Friday's night, eight o'clock. It felt absurd; he was shredding his mind to pieces because of the letter the whole noon and evening only for it to turn out as an invitation. He held the writing in his hands, reading the words again and then again, feeling like laughing. He let it sink down for a while. Albeit it lifted some weight from his heart as he feared it to be some kind of a threat, it dropped it right back again. It was confusing and shocking to a certain degree. Indeed ridiculous to his own ears. He exhaled deeply, calming down. It was simple. He was going to politely decline, there was no other choice. It was comically easy; he didn't have, and for sure wouldn't find, a partner to go with nor the courage to be seen on a ball. Then, and he hesitated on that thought, he wondered if it was a challenge.

Although Alexander didn't wait a second then to take a pen, bottle of ink and a suitable sheet of paper from a drawer, which stood next to a glass cabinet stacked of books, on the northernmost side of the room. He lit up the gas lamps on the walls to break the dim lightning. He quite forgot the fireplace was still glowing since its light faded and blended in very well with the new, stronger one. It was only the presence of its heat which remained somewhat helpful, warming him, just softly. Putting all of the things down on the table, he moved down on the carpet beneath the wooden legs, sitting himself on his heels. He didn't expect the position to be such a relief to his muscles. He then arranged all the things on the table before opening the dark ink bottle, dipping the sharp tip in. Out of pure habit, he made a few testing lines on a different piece of paper and then began to write. 

Frankly, balls weren't an occasion he wanted to be seen at, especially when he wasn't even a bit sure what and who to expect to show up. As much as he found the whole image hilarious, it wasn't because of the, perhaps too fast, chain of events, which led him towards holding Thomas' letter and subsequently writing his own, because truly, it wasn't the fundamentally served idea that bothered him. Alexander was now sitting in his quiet living room and, if there really was no ill intention behind it, writing rather more for Thomas' own sake than his, for he was sure they would question his presence for under which host's name it'd be written more than the simple reality of it. And sadly, Oliver's regular visits at his house already put his name under several question marks in the eyes of many people and Alexander certainly didn't want to be particularly linked with any other man. And if there was a secret ill intention, it was for the best to stay as far away from him as possible. Simple. 

It wasn't far after his words of inception Alexander realised he should have thought it through beforehand. He was making sharp halts and stumbled across his words, which resulted in many messy letters, and as much as he tried, mistakes were made. Nevertheless, the poet was determined to finish it and so the uncertain process of writing carried on, until he wrote the last letter of his name after a polite farewell. He set the pen down and shifted in his seat, looking at the finished work. He frowned upon seeing the quivering words of various thickness and started to think he should rewrite it. Upon further inquiry of his situation, Alexander decided to let the imperfections be. While waiting for the writing to dry fully, he searched for the right sized envelope. When he came back from the dark drawer, he carefully tested if the ink was completely dry, then folded the paper in half and slid it inside the envelope, closing the top, adding a stamp and writing all the important information. After closing the ink bottle, he took a long glance at the letter. It was the right thing to do, certainly.

Leaning against the settee, Alexander closed his eyes, breathing out heavily. He stopped himself before letting out a long whine and shifted his legs into a more comfortable position, resting his head on the pleasing cushion behind him. He was twisting his mind, overthinking again. Alexander didn't want to fall into both consequencing positions, one worse than the other. After all, Thomas was the one to reach out first and Alexander had every right to pull the other way around. He slowly dived into their dialogs and remembered Thomas' words. You are a brave man. Maybe he was just playing with him, he knew that game, played it before and now, here he was again. Although you can't really force your eyes to lie too, right? 

When he got up to put more wood into the fireplace, Alexander threw his letter in as well, watching it burn to ashes. 


	3. Chapter 3

Alexander was sitting in short grass. He had his old hickory brown trousers rolled up just to reach the area around his knees, shins naked and halfway submerged in crystal clear water. The river was deep enough for him not to touch the damp floor of dirt and rocks under the surface and he was able to move his legs in steady, circular motion or forth and back. It was relaxing, the way the river floated through in a calm manner, tickling his skin, running around his legs. It cooled him down, too. The first two buttons of an old cotton shirt he was wearing were unbuttoned and he had the sleeves rolled up around his elbows, feeling the zephyr on his skin. Dark grey suit jacket loosely hugged his shoulders from behind. His shoes laid next to him in the greensward, socks thrown recklessly inside. The same velvet book rested open on his lap, laying on his thighs, supported by his left hand, which clutched the pages and backboard whilst the other one, instead of writing verses like formerly planned, was absently sketching the landscape in front of him. Alexander was daydreaming, watching the river float.

Planted deep in the ground of thoughts, he didn't pay any attention to his surroundings till a hand, laid gently on his right shoulder, brought him back to the present. The flinch his body performed was painful and he almost dropped his notebook into the water. His pencil fell from his grip and slid down on the pages, rolling into his lap. Alexander was fast to turn around. 

"Sorry for that," Oliver apologized. It was evident he was trying to hide a laugh, which he failed at. The eyeroll Alexander made was beyond outstanding and almost gave him a headache. He turned right back towards the water, ignoring his friend. The blond nearly scared him again when he leaned behind his shoulder, saying right into his ear:"never told me you draw," examining the drawing.

Alexander's eyes followed the latter's voice, eyeing the scenery as well, shrugging, "it's just a nonsense." When he faced Oliver again, his words sounded way happier, "no need to worry about your post in the gallery."

Oliver laughed, sitting down near him, not far away from the humble riverbank, yet still not joining him in the water as he positioned himself cross legged next to him. The tip of one of his long shoes poked Alexander's thigh slightly. It was strangely comfortable. "Poetry looks better on you, anyways. You don't have what it takes to be a painter." 

Alexander chuckled, "and what's that?" he asked, running his hands through the grass, automatically taking a handful of the short stalks into his fists, stretching his arms, leaning backwards. The greens spreaded between his fingers, filling the blank space between them, gently tickling their sides and the back of his hand, caressing his knuckles. The fragrance was nearly drinkable. 

"Patience, my friend. You lack it. Alas, just as I lack freedom." 

"Patience slows you down, one must progress fast. Besides, you chose thraldom to your craft with your own free will, so don't try to lecture me on patience when we both clearly bend and perceive the definition differently."

Oliver sighed, turning his head skywards, ignoring his latter remark, "well, but you're too fast. Sometimes, it's better to stop for a moment, look behind, harvest the knowledge of time." The sun illuminated his face, making it shine. He had this face on, the stone one. It wasn't Alexander's intention to aggravate him, at least not at the beginning. "It's different in poetry than it is in painting. I assume we can at least agree on that."

He didn't say anything back. Still, Oliver was right there. They certainly could agree on that. Alexander always reminded him he was too stuck on each painting. It was never truly complete in Oliver's eyes and he always used to reply that the gallery demanded perfection, which one only achieved by simply being stuck. He called it patience. Self-destructive one, if Alexander ought to comment on it, he never saw the meaning of it. Thus, they would argue on that as well. He always reminded him how he despised the gallery's philosophy and what impact it had on Oliver's art.

"How did you find me?" he asked then, lifting his head to look the blond in the eyes, reluctant. It was always those stupid questions he asked when there was nothing else to pick up on and he needed to change the subject. 

"Where else would you be," Oliver chuckled, watching the river, its unsteady moving surface and the glistening in random places where the sun dropped its silver rays down, changing the water into a plethora of translucent crystals. Oliver was shaved, his hair neatly styled, exposing his tall forehead. He looked nice. "Josephine told me."

The poet hummed softly in response, still watching his friend. He took some time before asking another question, looking downwards on the grass. Long shiver ran through his spine. "Why are you here then? Do you need anything?"

Alexander should had known there was something wrong when the latter didn't answer immediately. 

"You did get the invitation, right?" Oliver said after a few moments. Alexander's heart jumped. They were so not having this conversation. He gripped the grass tighter between his fingers. Some of them snapped in half.

"Oliver-"

"I will not force you to go," the blond stopped him, turning his head to face him. "But consider it, please." 

Alexander felt the irritation creeping up on him, and suddenly, he was cold, "no, I won't," he answered, "I've already made my decision. I refuse." 

It seemed Oliver was ready for an argument, "Alexander, please. It's a good opportunity."

"Opportunity for what exactly? To make a bigger fool of me? Oliver, that's ridiculous!" 

"You are ridiculous! Why can't you move from the past? You're stuck in it too deep and it's doing you no good." 

"Big words for someone who doesn't have to live with the consequences. Are you even listening to what you're implying?" 

"Your past mistakes don't have to define who you can be now, Alexander. If you just gave it a chan-"

"But that's exactly the case, Oliver! It defines me because it wasn't a mistake, it was exactly what I wanted to do!" Alexander removed his legs out of the water, splashing liquid everywhere and started to dress himself apace. His socks were soaked the moment he put them on. He couldn't care less in that situation. "I am not sure what you are trying to achieve, but stop painting my life like you are the one living it." 

Without turning around, Alexander stormed out of the place, heading home, hastily putting on his suit jacket. He heard Oliver calling behind him but didn't stop till he stood on his porch. Oliver followed him there. 

"I am sorry, Alex. I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted to help." 

The poet turned around, facing him. Oliver didn't climb the stairs after him, he stood on the ground, good three meters away. He could still see the look in his eyes well. 

"Tell me, Oliver," he began, hands at his sides, clenched in fists, but his tone wasn't aggressive "do you trust me?" 

His friend seemed confused, "of course I do. Why are you asking that?" 

"…you are my only friend, Oliver. I trust you with my life and I am certain you would never wrong me. But if you ever stop considering us friends, don't make me bleed. If you ever want to leave, please, do it like the gentleman you are. I want you to know that." 

Oliver almost took a step towards him, but stopped himself, looking him in the eyes instead, "Why are you saying that, Alex? What's…what's the reason behind it?" he sounded on the verge of despair. So unusual.

"Like I said, I want you to know that."

"Are you questioning our friendship? Is that the cause?" It wasn't supposed to go that way. 

"No." Alexander dragged out the answer, looking straight into his eyes. He wasn't sure if he sounded genuine and if he really meant it.

"Did I do something wrong then? Tell me, please." 

"No, you didn't. Let it be, Oliver. Just mark my words, please. You are too dear to my heart to break." 

"You know I would never-"

"Fancy going inside?" Alexander smiled bleakly, "I'm making tea." 

He saw the denial in the blond's eyes right before he spoke, "no, I wasn't going to stay long. I have to go. But I'll stop by sometime later."

Alexander nodded. He didn't expect that. Or perhaps he did, too well. 

"Alright," he said, "have a nice way back, then."

"Thank you," Oliver smiled thinly, just out of habit. Or it felt like it because in that moment, it seemed like they were immensely apart, like two strangers. Oliver turned around, but Alexander didn't leave his eyes away from him, therefore he saw the hesitation is his posture when he spun back to him.

"Alexander?"

The poet tilted his chin upwards, anticipating.

It appeared Oliver changed his words in the last second, sighing, "take care of yourself."

"You too, friend."

-

"Would you like more tea, sir?" Josephine asked from where she stood next to the stove, watching him.

"No, I'm fine, thank you," Alexander answered, twisting his already finished cup in his hand by the handle. He was deep in thought. For the hundredth time, Alexander visited the afternoon dialogue between him and Oliver again, replaying the words spoken on repeat. He felt foolish when he got to the one particular part. It wasn't fair for him to jump his friend like that. He didn't accuse him of anything though, just pushed, which was the only thing Alexander was thankful for in that scenario. Oliver took those things seriously, even though he sometimes tended to overstep his own set boundaries. He damned his unreasonable paranoia. It had too much control. 

Leaning against the chair, slumping his shoulders as he did so, he let out a dragging, deep exhale. He brought the cup into his lap, shifting it continuously. 

"It's getting cold, sir, should I close the window?"

Alexander shook his head, effortlessly uttering "no".

"As you wish, though please, keep in mind to close it before you leave. I'm going to be upstairs."

Alexander nodded briefly and watched her as she crossed the table, disappearing in the hallway. Her footsteps echoed across the walls whilst she made her way up.

Alexander looked down into the empty cup, it almost laid horizontal on his lower waist, a few dark honey coloured drops of tea slid from the bottom down the round wall as the porcelain leaned forward, halting their movement somewhere in the middle, pouring into themselves. He watched them for a while, deep in thought. Should he tilt the porcelain a bit further, they would spill and stain his shirt. Alexander sighed and slowly stood up, placing the tea on one of the dark counters. He closed the window and the wind blew one last kiss of goodbye on his face before it disappeard. Then, Alexander moved into the living room, sitting down on the sofa, sinking into it.

He immediately hopped on another nameless train of thought which took him upstairs into his bedroom. He abandoned his desk piled up with tall towers of books of plethora of thickness and age, drops of dried white wax randomly spilt on the wood, which he truly couldn't remember how they got there, black ink spots, too, and vast amounts of paper chaos leading the realm of mess. It was evident he was in a desperate need of writing. Anything. It was all in vain, though.

He looked outside the window, distracting his mind. Wednesday's afternoon brought in perhaps a bit too bright weather. The living room radiated heat, tender energy and freshness. Sun creeped in through windows and warmed up every corner in its reach, softening the whole house by its presence, creating such a sharp contrast to Alexander's aura. Never before would he call himself a cynic, and even now it tasted bitter when Oliver used the naming on him, sometimes. It felt even worse when he realised Oliver was right. He used excuses as his barricade every time, though he knew they were all useless. Even he himself hated it. 

When his mind came to it, it felt sinful, thinking about the pleasure of enjoying a ball night, but Alexander was no saint to be honest. And frankly, had nothing to lose. Only himself.

"Mr Turner, I found this on your desk-"

He turned around, fast, looking at the object in the maid's hands.

"-and couldn't but wonder if you planned on responding, since I'm not sure where it should be put."

Alexander didn't ponder a second about the answer: "Let it be, Josephine. I'll take care of it." 

Josephine nodded with a light smile and then vanished back into the hallway. Alexander ran a steady hand through his hair, closing his eyes. That damned letter. There wasn't a moment which he would dedicate to anything else but that damned letter. It started to grow on him and the idea, which he automatically scratched out the other day, was becoming trite and persuasive more and more each time he thought about it. And each single time, he tried to fight it. Truly.

Alexander stood up and headed to the kitchen where he poured himself a cup of water and returned to the living room, taking a sip on his way back. Setting the cup on the coffee table, he couldn't help but wonder about the invitation. It was a terrible, terrible idea. A death wish, even. Then the whole thought escalated inside him and led his brain to another question mark, which he already knew the answer to. Was his life based primarily on right decisions? Certainly not, no. He shouldn't question that though, because on the other hand, he aimed to change that. It was exactly such a form of lifestyle that destroyed him in the first place. There was nothing good about making bad decisions, unless they led to a beneficial ending. However, Alexander wasn't so lucky and candidly, it was an unfair bet, the ball's outcome. Everything pointed towards another disaster. 

It also occurred to him that perhaps he should show them; nothing was proven against him. Just rumours spoken. Alexander wasn't a fool though, it was all about the principle right from the very beginning, he knew that. And there would be consequences. 

Although this wasn't about pride or bravery. It was all about his dignity. 

-

It had him looping around for the whole next day. He was restless, scrupled. He genuinely started to believe it wasn't so bad of an idea. It chewed him, still. It was awful. 

When they ate, Josephine didn't ask or mention it, though Alexander was certain she picked up on his state. It felt like she was waiting for him to say something. It was an unbearable pressure, so he finally spoke, itching all over.

"Josephine, iron my shirt for friday, please." 

She had a sparkle in her eyes when she looked up at him, "of course, sir," she said and after a few seconds added, "may I ask, where to?" 

"I'm attending a ball," he spoke lowly. "And withal, I want you to prepare my black dress coat and pants, please, the new ones."

"Don't worry, sir, everything will be ready," Josephine nodded with a smile, head lowering down. 

"Thank you," Alexander said hastily. He wanted the conversation over as fast as possible. He felt sick out of sudden. 

And then he left the table quickly right after.

-

The sky embraced itself in a deep, dark overcoat, painting the land pitch black. The shining narrator of outer space climbed up the empyrean, glowing shyly through a thin, cold fog up in the sky, illuminating the land. Alexander sat at his desk, pen in hand and head eighty pounds heavy, supporting it by a palm against his left temple. The moon shined in through the window behind him, a cold hand of heat on his back. He couldn't focus on writing, there was too much chaos inside him. The ball was all he had in mind, like a parasyte preying on his thoughts, reminding him every second that tomorrow by this time he would be outside, socializing amongst the nobles. Damned hypocrites. It was a big step for him and a big decision he had made the other day. Long time ago, he resolved to shield himself away from the outside world, hide and push everyone out. Here comes tomorrow.

He was afraid. Afraid of looks, words, thoughts and touches. Everything was against him. He was so sure he would be a target of theirs the very moment he stepped in. He still had time to reconsider. It wasn't like anyone anticipated him. Thomas did, though. He seemed nice. Warm and with so, so beautiful eyes. Would they pierce his heart for the sake of temporary fun? He prayed for Oliver to seek and save him from the hunger of others.

He wasn't ready at all; his body was exhausted, pleading to sink down under the covers and finally drift into dreams. He, on the other hand, wanted to squeeze a stanza out of himself. Just a rhyme, word, idea, something. Yet nothing but horribly assumptions about tomorrow filled his mind.  
He knew well he was nothing without his poetry, so terribly aware. Yet one of Alexander's biggest fears was that someone else would admit it too. That would shatter his heart completely. Oliver always told him otherwise. He said there was so much more than the desperate hunt for verses which always seemed to overcome him. Even that was now pointless, his efforts seemed to meet the same empty end all the time. It was quite pathetic, in his opinion. 

Bringing his head into his hands, elbows on the desk pushing hard into the wood it hurt, he let out a defeated groan. It was over for today. Blowing the candles off, he fell down on the bed. He couldn't fall asleep for a long time that night.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was still sitting low in the sky, right above the deep tinted horizon, when he left the house. The blues were slowly fading downwards, pouring and spreading colours to fade into rich gradients, rosy lavenders. The sun was fulgent, golden, like a new light bulb. The clouds bled warm and settled high up in the welkin. Everything was impossibly quiet and still around him, though the air tasted heavy and had an odd smell. Silence before the storm. It felt like so very often now.

He felt like it was too early for a black carriage to stop by the main road right in front of him. He didn't have a watch to check nevertheless, and besides, they never really agreed on a specific time. The brawny bay pair of horses looked like a fever dream as they stomped the ground. Perhaps it was. He nodded towards the coachman shortly when the man jumped off his seat and greeted Alexander, opening the door for him. The spiraling feeling began right there and never quite left him that night.

Oliver and his wife, Adeline, were waiting for him inside, sitting next to each other. Alexander sat himself on the opposite seat near the window, already feeling claustrophobic. He told his friend he would be taking his own carriage, but Oliver insisted he should ride with them. It was a bit pitiful, too, looking at it now.

"Good evening, Alexander," Oliver's voice possessed the very happiness of a persuasive person (which he, in the end, was, after all) and it annoyed the poet. He tried not to dwell on that though, for it wasn't a bad intention, he reminded himself. He shifted in his seat and then eyed the couple properly for the first time that day. He noticed that Oliver was keeping his black hat and wooden cane resting on his lap. The wood was somewhat typical for him. He was wearing a new pair of trousers which went well with his black dress coat. And Adeline was beautiful as per usual. Her simple beige moire gown that danced a duet with her decent jewelry made her appearance almost angelic. 

"Nice to see you too, Oliver," the poet nodded, entwining his fingers together, leaning back against the seat. "Adeline," he gave the said lady a brief look, not trying to hide his unimpressed subtone and cold eyes. 

"Turner," she greeted him back, steady and low, with the exact same expression. Alas, they weren't on a good term of basis, not even slightly. They disliked each other, both with equal passion. And frankly, last autumn didn't make a very pleasant turn in their relationships, to say the least. Oliver gave up his fight on that front a long time ago, he was aware of both of them being different and having their own dynamic, fighting their own battle. He didn't desire losing any of them over it.

And then, Alexander knew well that people truly didn't care about him loving differently. No, deep down in the core of a thing, it wasn't where the issue burned. It was all about the society learned moral principle, for the tumor and the seed of hate had lived within them from the very beginning. Perhaps fear, restrained inclination, or the mere desire to cut his wings off was the fuel that drove them, Alexander couldn't care less. At least Adeline held respect for him and Alexander paid her with the same coin.

But there were some who understood. Oliver, for instance. Alexander met him when the latter was still actively travelling. It was a coincidence, really; they found the very same spot near the sea. The waves were calm and beautiful on that day, the beach basked in crimson dusk that lit the sky on fire and the sea was glimmering like a box of golden coins. The beauty of late summer. It was even bigger of a coincidence as they both came to make art, inspired by nature. Oliver was quick to start a small talk and suddenly, they behaved like old friends. They talked while the waves washed over the coast, swallowed themselves into a big mass of water like children playing on a lazy day, thick, milky sea foam and crystal clear water glistening in the twilight. It was a mesmerizing day. A lovely memory.

Oliver was studying art at that time, was a keen painter, had a heart of gold and calm temper. He loved nature, golden waves of unfettered seas the most. Alexander himself was a very reserved, phlegmatic man even when they met, but there was this funny, cheerful soul inside him. He was a listener rather than a talker. He found Oliver a very talented man, valued and appreciated their friendship, for Oliver's been his greatest support in hard times, friend through thick and thin. On the other hand, Oliver would describe Alexander as a loner, deep thinker and a good hearted person. A friend. He was very joyful in his youth, curious and motivated, although still reserved and mysterious. He had his moments.

Then, not so long after finishing his studies, Oliver was introduced to lady Adeline. The meeting was arranged by her aunt who went to him as she wanted a portrait of her niece, and soon, Oliver found himself deeply in love. Golden waves were so similar to her honey coloured locks, beacon of the dawn, uncharted beauty, falling down on the soft pillows of their bed and swaying under friction, tender, like the sunset-kissed sea that covered the coast, dry sand that burnt the feet. A walking masterpiece.

As the horse rode, they talked about Oliver's work, his new paintings and past travels. Alexander found a pleasant distraction in his speaking. He asked about his latest piece and about his trip to the countryside. Soon, his hands stopped sweating. It was a small moment of redemption.

Alexander observed the passing trees, moving masses of bushes and houses, watched them pour into themselves like flashes of ink in his peripheral vision, fading palette of numerous colours, canvas of many scenarios and stories. Meanwhile, Oliver talked, though Alexander was distracted by his own mental monologue, thus he failed to pay attention. Words faded into a comfortable hum in the background, then vanished entirely. He was lost somewhere in between his thoughts and the nature behind the thin glass board. His hand was subconsciously tugging at the sleeve of his coat, nervously pulling the fabric.

They arrived at Gray's property in fifteen minutes. 

-

It was fear that greeted him first. Alexander was scared. He was scared, even though he was still sitting in his seat in the carriage. His stomach was stuck in a loop of constant somersaults and it felt like his guts were tangling tighter with each flip. His heartbeat was ringing in his ears and he felt like his heart would burst out should he focus on it any longer and his claustrophobia was getting worse, so he decided to quickly get out of the tiny space. He quickly found out it was a mistake, for when he landed on the cobblestone, a storm broke out inside him and he almost doubled over. He heard the coachman spur the horses as he rode off and he hardly swallowed the pitiful urge to whimper and followed his company towards the entrance. His eyes pierced the back of his friend's blond nape. He felt incredibly cold.  
If he ever questioned how bad of an idea this could possibly be, he had a clear answer now.

There were already many groups of people chatting inside when they entered the mansion. It took one look around and Alexander didn't have to see the rest of the many rooms this house certainly had to know it was a perfect image of wealth and the need to show it. All the polished decorations and crowds made the reality even more overwhelming and prompted Alexander's body to react even more endangered than it did outside. All the lights and trinkets made his head dizzy, however he was perfectly sober to sense several pairs of eyes on him, from every corner and direction. He felt it all and honestly saw that coming, yet somehow, the idea itself was much more pleasant in his imagination than in practicality. It took the violent spin he'd seen coming from the beginning, obviously.

Alexander started to itch from the cold sweat he felt running down his nape and sides. He had this massive demand to breathe in all the oxygen present in the hallway and his mind was overtaken by this idea instantly. When he realised he couldn't breathe at all, the air in his windpipe stuck on the way through his chest and aggravated his whole predicament. It made his brain go wild, feral. He landed a heavy hand on the blond's shoulder in desperation and the physical contact was all it took for him to snap completely. He gave in to his instincts and turned back, searching for an exit. Oliver called after him but Alexander had no reason to turn around or stop. It was all too much and he almost cried out when he caught the sight of a balcony in his peripheral vision, made it quickly there. 

The cold, fresh air was ecstatic. The serendipity of this moment was almost heavenly, it made his knees buckle under the weight of it. He was practically crying. The wind bit his red cheeks sharply, but it added to the pleasure of the moment. Alexander leaned against the railing with his forearms, breathing heavily a few times, nearly gagging on oxygen. He needed to cool down, he appealed, and lowered his head between his opened arms, closing his eyes. He felt the movement when his cold lashes touched the flaming flesh of his cheeks, it released a full meadow of nimble butterflies into his stomach. It burned when he inhaled through his mouth, each and every time, but he could stop himself from doing it. Alexander was sure he was about to lose his voice tonight.

"Oh god," he allowed himself to let out. He wanted to laugh at his own misery. He wanted to scream till his throat ripped apart. He wanted to beat himself to death. He wanted to yank the railing off the ground. He didn't do anything though, just hung there on the balustrade. He needed to calm down. It was alright.

When he heard a voice, he barely resisted the wheeze.

"So you did come after all. I didn't expect you to." 

Alexander's eyes snapped open. At first, he failed to match the voice with a face, then it clicked. Of course it clicked. He wondered how the man managed to recognise him, it didn't feel like much of a surprise though. Then it crossed him how long he had been standing there for, minutes or seconds, the poet hoped the man saw none of it. He took a moment to collect himself, lifting his head slowly. He wasn't sure he wanted to face him. Or any other person, particularly. He did so, nevertheless, mentally praying to look at least somewhat presentable.

Thomas stood a few meters away from him, just in the opening of the balcony. Alexander couldn't see him well since the light from the dancefloor casted a deep cloak of shadow over his whole being. Just a sharp cut-out of a person staring at him. It was him though, no doubts. Alexander was speechless. His hands clutched at the metal railing behind him and he pressed his lower back into it. There was a long pregnant pause between them in which Alexander considered running away. Thomas blocked the chance though. Would he let him escape, however?

Thomas sounded concerned when he said "are you alright?", and stepped closer towards him. "Should I get you some water or anything? Anyone?" 

Alexander was slapped awoken by that. He chuckled quietly and moved sideways, further away from Gray. "No need for concern," he answered. Tender. His cheeks were still flushed when he laid the back of his hand on one of them. He pushed at his reddened flesh, just to feel something. Thomas watched him with a sceptical look and he felt like elaborating: "I am alright, only needed some fresh air."

"I see." He was still looking at him and didn't even try to hide the scepticism in his tone. Alexander could see through it all. He breathed in, long and slow. There was something wicked on the balcony among them, the poet could feel it. It lurked in the dark around them. He looked behind himself dubiously, but there was nobody but Thomas and him. A shiver ran through his spine and he twitched from the cold. 

"Would you mind me staying here with you for a while?" 

The question echoed in his ears for several moments, bouncing across his skull, left and right, back and forth. It felt like eternity and Thomas took another step forward, urging him to answer. 

"Suit yourself." 

The latter laughed and suddenly, they were in such a close proximity that Alexander could see his eyes perfectly. The light from the ballroom illuminated them, making it seem like fire burnt inside. His gaze lingered on the inferno for a while. It was mesmerizing.

"I like the ribbon," Thomas pointed out, smiling, "it makes you look less serious."

Alexander wasn't sure what to say in response. He wasn't sure if he wanted to say anything at all. He just blinked at him and then looked down at the long ribbon around his collar.

"..thank you," it sounded like a whisper, he hated that sound immediately. And then his eyes somewhat freezed on spot and he hesitated if he should look at Thomas again. He had a feeling something bad would happen if he did. He rather turned the other way around instead and leaned back into his former position. 

"Quite a view itself, too," he stated, looking into the distance. 

"Oh yes, it is," Thomas beamed, "too close to the town though. I appreciate your dwelling much more."

"I can see why." 

"I sometimes envy you, you know" Thomas came next to him, practically a step apart. 

Alexander was face slapped again by his comment and let out another chuckle, sinking a little into his memories, "there's nothing to envy."

"No, no, there is. You live such a quiet life. Nature, poetry, tea in the afternoon, the river, all of that. It's quite idealistic. Much more easier than-"

"You don't know what's easy," Alexander snapped and grabbed Gray by the fabric near his lapels, facing him with such calm fury in his eyes that the latter stopped talking immediately. Alexander hoped he could see the anger all over his face. His voice was even when he said: "you don't know anything, Thomas. You know nothing about me or my life and you have exactly zero credentials to decide whether it's easy or not," he wanted to punch him so hard that his right hand trembled through the urge, "you know nothing." 

He had so much more to say but his mind was flooded with crimson emotions and everything was moving so slowly, he couldn't voice anything else. Thomas just stared at him and the poet saw fear in his eyes. They were piercing his own and he was standing completely still. Alexander was anticipating some kind of reaction, a fist against his cheekbone, but the fire didn't leash out at him. He wanted it to though, for his behavior made him feel like he was the bad one. And then suddenly, he let go of him and stumbled backwards, swallowing all the anger and embarrassment. Thomas seemed frozen on him and Alexander decided to use his inaction and run as fast as he could. When he turned towards the door, Oliver was standing there, watching them, and a massive wave crashed over the poet's heart. He stood there unmoving in shock for a split second. He didn't wait for any of them to say something and stormed out of the balcony. He sort of expected Oliver to yank him back by his arm, but he didn't. He let him walk off.

-

Alexander didn't know where he was going, all he knew was that he needed out. Out and quick. He stormed the dance floor in an impossible hurry and turned right in the door frame, recognised the big front door, emerging towards them as fast as he could. He had the feeling a certain somebody was following him and he ignored everybody around. Everything was just a smudge of colours, nothing else but escape mattered anymore. Alexander was screwed.

He basically ran out of the mansion into the front yard like a frantic and it was just a miracle that his legs didn't give up on him on the way. He made it to a fountain before he collapsed on the cold stone, knees hitting the ground too violently. He wanted to scream and perhaps he even did, Alexander wouldn't know anymore. He sank onto the ground like a bundle of misery and punched the ground with his fist. Over and over again with everything it took. That was the moment when he realised he was crying. Tears fell down his bitten cheeks, blocking his vision and he was choking on sobs and hiccups. Managing to just curl into himself on the dusty ground, Alexander completely crumbled apart. He was done. He was over. His hand hurt and he was shaking all over. Tonight took the last straw he held onto.

It felt like forever till his eyes ran out of tears to shed and he was just trembling and sobbing on the ground. He wanted to die. He clenched his hand into a fist and punched the ground again, hard, aiming on the spot where it hurt the most with all the strength he could gather. Then he broke into laughter, staring up into the open sky, shaking from misery. He laughed like a madman, hiccups and desperation ripping through his voice. It felt like a massive flashback, never-ending dèja vu. When everything died out inside him, he noticed a few lonely tears spilling from his eyes, mapping the previous pink trails of their ancestors. He laid completely still for a while and if it wasn't for the rise and fall of his chest, he appeared dead. He wished to be.

When he calmed down and all that was left were heavy breaths, he shifted himself and pressed his back against the fountain, flinching when the cold stone touched him, looking around his surroundings. He was alone, which was at least something. He would smash his head against the stone right here and now should somebody see him. But then, he'd been seen at worse.

Alexander felt numb. Numb to the point everything looked grey and heavy. All he could feel was cold seeping into his bones through the stone. Cold that bit and pinched his skin and it was the only thing that reminded him there was still something alive inside him. It was also the pain in his right hand that spreaded from his fingers to his wrist and he realised he wouldn't be able to hold a pen properly for some time. Not that it would make any difference in his progress. He was completely useless now.

He messed up, he was well aware. No, he fucked up and he did so so bad. He shouldn't have snapped at him. He shouldn't have. He shouldn't have come here in the first place. What was he going to do now? He tangled his few options even tighter. He couldn't go back and he couldn't go home, all there was left for him was the tiny space of middle ground, the proximity of this fountain. Alexander groaned.

"You'll get sick, sitting like that." 

Alexander's breath stuttered in his chest. Not again. He got up the least clumsy way he could manage to with his current preoccupations and began to walk away again.

"Please, don't leave."

It sounded almost desperate and it made him stop like it would any other time and any other person. Awaiting.

"I am sorry, I didn't know what I was saying. I didn't mean to anger you. I know that we are not friends and it was foolish of me to talk like that. Forgive me."

It felt like some kind of a dèja vu again. 

"Please."

Alexander didn't answer at first, he just turned around and sat on the fountain, holding his hand in the other carefully. "It's alright," he uttered then, just to overshout the silence.

"No, it's not, and I apologise," Thomas argued.

Alexander just chuckled, staring at the ground. No, things weren't so simple, it always upset him when people thought so. It was a lived-in mechanism of everyone, apologies. Just a formality to not look like an asshole, really, just a plaster over a scar. Able to hide the impact, not to erase it. How good is a solace offered by the very thing it caused your need for it? Candidly, the word meant nothing to Alexander. So easy to say and baring the intention to sweep everything under the carpet so briskly. How many times can one apologise for the word to lose it's meaning? 

"I accept your apology." Alexander couldn't deny it was easier sometimes to lie. In hindsight, it didn't matter at all.

Thomas was silent then. They could hear the water fizzing in the fountain and the noise coming out of the mansion. Somehow, it felt comfortable. And Alexander wondered if Thomas knew there was something wrong. He almost wished he'd ask about it.

"Should I leave?" 

"You ask me?" It came a bit too aggressive, he realised, like a bark. Well, it was meant to sound aggressive, frankly. He looked at Thomas to examine his reaction, then sighed, "if you want to."

There was another pause where Alexander anticipated him to leave. Or perhaps he wished for him to do so because he already knew the man had no intention of leaving. Maybe it was better like that. What would he do there alone? Well, he would never find out.

Then he at least anticipated the man to stay in silence, wrong, too:

"Do you hate me?" Thomas asked. 

To be honest, Alexander didn't expect that coming. "What?"

"Do you hate me?" Thomas repeated, "I get the feeling you do."

It started to get a little ridiculous. Alexander kept his calm, however, "hate is a strong word, Thomas, you can reserve it only for so many people. I don't feel that way about you," he shook his head, then looked up at him, offering him a peculiar smile.

Thomas nodded slightly and the poet suspected it was meant to be just a mental reassurance, which made him chuckle and spurred a chain reaction, which took him by a surprise even more: Thomas, under the impression that the ice was broken, smiled himself too and slowly sat next to him, quite close.

"I would like to get to know you more, Alexander, I meant it when I said so, you know. You inspire me. And I am utterly genuine when I say that I was very delighted when I saw you here tonight. But alas, you're making it difficult for me, you know, hence the surmise," he said, looking up at the stars. His confession felt so strangely casual and intimate; naked under the sky. Alexander couldn't stay mad at him and he melted. 

"I'm hard to approach, I know and I admit that," Alexander sighed, "but I like to think of it as a layer one needs to overcome. Frankly, not so many prevail." 

"You're a tough nut to crack then," Thomas said. He sounded a lot cheerful.

"Guess I am," Alexander smiled.

They didn't go back inside, at least not right after. Alexander found the whole atmosphere oddly comfortable, calming, even. He didn't feel alerted anymore and there was something bosom about their close propinquity. Out of nowhere, he was carefree. The night was quiet and light and the stone surface underneath him was massive and assuring. The fresh air, on the other hand, was intoxicating and tasted sweet. Thomas sat a bit more closer to him now, close enough for him to feel his heat on his left side and Alexander wasn't cold anymore. He shivered everytime it came to his mind. He kicked the ground from time to time and watched the dust swirl in the air like a cheap confetti. The motion seemed mesmerizing to him, so eye-catching. It held something nostalgic. Thomas talked and he partly listened and partly just simply sat there and existed, carefree. Nothing else mattered, time seemed useless in the moment, nonexistent. It was such a distant feeling to his heart, as if he felt everything and nothing at the same time, but it wasn't overwhelming at all, quite the opposite; he desired to feel more and that was why he fancied it. 

When he tuned Thomas back in, he only caught the last words of what he said:

"-go back?"

"Hm?" he looked up at him with perked eyebrows and kicked the ground again. 

"Should we go back inside? The ball is about to start and alas, it would be discourteous for me as a host to lack presence," Thomas said, then frowned, "my father wouldn't be pleased should I be absent." 

To be honest, Alexander completely forgot who Thomas was and what circumstances pressured them tonight. It felt somewhat impossible, yet it was the brutal face of reality. When he imagined himself going back to the house, the soft cloud he floated on disappeared beneath him and he was falling again. He felt panic flooding his head once more and the sickness crawled back. The feeling of bliss was gone on instant.

"That's right. Sorry for keeping you here so long."

Thomas laid a hand on his shoulder and it took everything in Alexander not to flinch back, "no need to apologise, it was my own decision." He looked him in the eyes and Alexander lost the chance to pull back, and he wished he did. In the moonlight, his eyes were even lighter than before and he couldn't imagine anything in the world that was more captivating. Even the brown swirls.

He felt his breath shudder when Thomas stroked his shoulder softly, "will you be alright?" 

And he felt like he had to do something or else he would do something foolish. A punch or a kiss seemed equally likely. So he pulled away and distanced himself enough to be out of reach again.

"You needn't worry about me."

He couldn't decipher the look Thomas gave him next, "alright, see you inside then," he raised up, "if you need anything, ask me." There was no hesitance behind his words and it felt wrong.

Alexander nodded, though he didn't look him in the eyes. Didn't do so even when he heard him walking off. He felt like he should had said something. It haunted his mind like a possessive ghost.

And now he was stuck again. It occurred to him that the moment of the high he experienced with Thomas minutes ago was just an ephemeral fragment in his pitiful predicament of this god forsaken night meant to never repeat again. It was gone just like that and felt so distant that, if it wasn't for the vivid memory, Alexander would deny ever experiencing it. Now everything seemed cruel again, bleak. 

He sat himself on the fountain again, wrapping his coat around him tighter, remembering the pain in his hand, wiping the dust from the fabric.  
There was something about this moment, Alexander felt unusually empty, which he did as well before, yet now there was heat underneath his skin. The temperature wasn't overwhelming, no. He felt warm and cold at the same time, it was strange. He found himself shaking several moments after that realisation and his breath hitched halfway through his throat. It made him jump back on his feet and he started pacing on the front yard like a mad hound, trying to shake the feeling off. The walls were closing in again, the panic was raising. Every breath felt heavier than the previous one. Alexander refused to give in, this time, he fought the urge to scream his lungs out and cry into the dust. His chest hurt bad from the uneven mannerism.

And then suddenly, he had enough of it all and dove himself into the water behind him. That was when it all fell apart again.


	5. Chapter 5

Alexander woke up feeling as if he was mercilessly awoken on his deathbed, just the very second before slipping in. He was sleep deprived before going to bed and the restless night drained him off of the tiny bit of energy that was left inside him. All the tossing of pain and aching muscles, cold, wet shivers closing all over his body, it seemed so distant now. For a blissful moment, it felt like a fever dream, as if it happened fifty years ago. Perhaps it was fever. Although the pain was still there, worse and so, so loud. What was possibly worse was the mental pain. Hollow, so very hollow. It was two days after the ball. 

The vivid memory stuck at the back of his head like a large sticker and always dragged the very same feeling of numbness behind itself when he retrospected. Honestly, he didn't remember much from the night. Oliver told him he was still in shock, memories would bubble up sooner rather than later. Oh, Oliver. The man saw it all. The dry moment of raw ugliness. Alexander felt sorry for him and would be lying if he said it didn't lit a pit of worry in his core. It was never meant to happen. The swollen, frigid puddle. The pure shock in his friend's eyes made him feel nothing but remorse that struck him when he sensed his presence back in the water and henceforth, never left. Alexander had never seen such aggressively written emotion scarring his friend's face before. It also made him wonder if there was a lower point than that, if he had a deeper bottom to sink to. Of course he had, this was nothing to November. This, however, emptied him completely. It was different. Autumn left a few emotions inside, still, but this time, Alexander shut down. He had a hollow spot in the middle.

When he made it out from the covers, very reluctantly, his head instantly pirouetted like a ballerina and got his enfeeble legs to a state where they almost gave out on him. His mind whipped itself for forgetting this primitive detail, right in the momentum. It made his mood more miserable for a sudden second before it slipped past him when he stumbled backwards and he was forced to sit back down. Nausea shuffled his insides for a rapid second. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for some time. It was harder than it seemed.

It took forever for him to dress up and even more to make it past the door frame. It was like his muscles gradually remembered to ache by each passing moment. The main obstacle was still awaiting. 

Slowly, he laid his foot on each stair with unbearable precision and when he was in the middle of his climb down, he already hated himself for doing this. Although the hatrade bloomed somewhere deeper, Alexander prohibited himself from thinking about it. He had to look like he was about to fall apart; almost crawling on his knees, grasping the railing like his life depended on it, shoulders curled inwards into a position where his spine didn't have the need to remind itself in aggressive manners. He considered throwing himself down the rest of the stairs.

Nobody was in the kitchen, except for his breakfast. When Alexander eyed the food, the nausea instantly came back and he had to look away. Talking himself into sitting down, he pushed the plate with his crumpets away and did the exact opposite with his tea. To his misery, the cup was already lukewarm when he touched it and his appetit was completely gone. The poet huffed in annoyance and folded his arms on the table, pushing his forehead into them, careful not to put too much pressure on his right hand. The cold material of his sleeves was pleasant against his burning skin. He let out a sigh and then went completely silent, listening. 

Everything was impossibly quiet at the moment, which was odd. Josephine had to leave the house then, and it wouldn't take much deduction in one to realise it had to be pretty much a long time ago. It made him think though, and for the first time that day he lazily repositioned his face to see the clock on the cupboard. The whole idea in practicality felt childishly exciting and he almost didn't do it for the damned sake of it. It was relatively late for breakfast. 

He almost dozed off again if it wasn't for the sound of Josephine coming back. The swing of the main door and her echoing footsteps lifted him from slumber and it was that kind of microsleep that jolted through his whole body and made him shot up in a wave of panic that went as fast as it came. It made his head dizzy for a lingering period of seconds.

"Good morning, sir, how are you feeling?" she walked past him right towards the cupboard. The only thing Alexander registered was the brief aroma of her question and a big basket under her arm. Somehow, his mood dropped even lower. 

Alexander breathed in long and managed to answer "awful", burying his head back into his tangled limbs. 

"You should rest, sir," she declared, "I will make you more tea, I have some herbs that should help." 

There was a gap of silence in which Alexander pondered if she was somehow making fun of him, and Josephine started brewing his drink. It irritated him. However, when she told him to go back to bed, he snapped out of his steam. 

Alexander draped his stiff back over the chair's back, narrowed his eyes just a little to see the light. It was bright outside. 

"Is there anything you wish to have for lunch?"

It made him almost chuckle, "I don't feel like eating at all."

The maid tightened her face, Alexander could feel it in the air. It irked mild annoyance in him which was quickly dusted off, "I see," she said, "but you need to eat nevertheless, I will make you a supper then," her voice cascaded into happiness upon her easy solution. Alexander wanted to slam his head against the table.

However, he collected himself from the kitchen and began to drag his body up the stairs again. Bad luck he had; Josephine stopped him on the third step:

"Sir," her head popped out from behind the wall, looking up at him, "you have a letter upstairs, I left in on your desk" 

Alexander didn't make any sign which would tell her she was heard, the semi pause in his movement was probably the closest to it, though he doubted she would catch it, and wobbled upstairs.

By the time he climbed into his room, he forgot about the letter and collapsed on his bed, kicking off his shoes and breathing into his pillows. It was cold. He dived deeper into his covers and closed his eyes again, trying to think grey. 

There was a soft knock on the door after a while and then Josephine stepped inside with a porcelain cup, honey and tea on a silver, round tray. Alexander nestled himself even more downwards into his bed and covered his head, shielding away from the sounds she made. 

"Serving the tea, sir," she said whilst putting the round tray down in the middle of the desk, careful not to touch his work, "mind drinking it while still hot." 

Alexander didn't reply to her remark, mostly because it faded in his head right away, and remained in the same position. 

"It's quite unpleasant in here, shall I open the window, sir?"

"No." 

"As you wish," the maid said in a sharp tone, Alexander could tell she expected otherwise. She was like an open book. "I won't disturb you now."

She was almost out, but stepped back at the last second, speaking to him again:

"Perhaps we should invite a doctor-" 

"There's no need for doctors, Josephine," Alexander muffled into his pillow, dragging it out like a trouser leg through a puddle. The split second of her coming back and asking that stupid question lit a fuel of anger in his head and he had to hold himself not to yell at her. He morphed the outburst of emotion into a whine and succumbed, falling into his own little shell of a world, tuning everything in and out at the same time.

He couldn't fall asleep though. His tremor and the cold -- both too loud for him to focus and never too loud to let him cross the thin border between passing out and falling asleep, so he remained unmoving in his miserable cocoon. When it became unbearable and his kettle of patience overflowed, build up frustration made him let go. Aggressively spinning around on his back and moving into a sitting position, Alexander let his droopy eyes roam over his belongings, steadily inhaling and doing otherwise, still clutching at his covers like a child. It wasn't so cold anymore.

At the desk, he eyed the beverage on the silver, unconsiderly aiming straight towards it, testing a sip at first. It tasted like a balmy, hot summer marsh through long, dry stalks of a meadowed valley that stab your soles just enough to still feel nice, stucking in and on your shoes. He doubted it was delcyfied, Josephine always forgot sugar. Alexander wasn't sure if she did that on purpose, probably yes. He could feel the warm liquid running down through his body, knitting a long thread of heat through him. He could pinpoint it's exact track and touch his skin where it burned the most. It was always a strange sensation, no matter how often he felt it and how precisely he knew it. It always took him by surprise.

Thinking about it now, the poet settled that opening the window was probably a good idea, since it was closed for three whole days, and he could imagine how strong the aroma of old books, polished wood and bed sheets, which always dominated the room, should possibly be now. It would most likely smell like disease and sweat and reek of tobacco, too. So he did exactly that, inviting spring inside, realising just how much he needed fresh air. Alexander stopped there for a second, by the window, looking outside. The wind chilled, but otherwise it was a nice day.

Because of his small eternity of being locked inside his house for two whole days, the feeling of wind running across his face and free air filling his lungs was practically extinct to his memory. And the longer he stood there, the more alive he felt.   
Alexander was convinced he wasn't going to leave the house at least for another week. The swelling around his dominant hand was severe and anybody could tell he overreached the situation. Alexander wasn't able to do much and was basically relying on Josephine. The helplessness was the worst of it.

Looking back at it now, he wouldn't make the mistakes he did back on the ball. Well, he wouldn't even bother to go in the first place. Nothing good came out of it like Oliver implied it would. It left him somewhat even more empty, as if the emptiness inside had no support to lean onto. He didn’t blame him though.

-

Later in the afternoon, Josephine poured him yet another cup and informed him that she had to visit the town to buy fresh vegetables for tomorrow. She left right after. Frankly, Alexander was glad she was gone.

Since there wasn't much he could do, Alexander decided to spend his time with a book. He had to pick one from the living room, as he didn't fancy going up and down again. The fact he read all of them didn't bother him that much, it was rather the punching realisation that he wasn't able to spread his full body length over the sofa that did. He was too tall to do so. He always had to find something that worsened his day just a bit more. It almost destroyed his ardour to read, his semi-sitting position that folded his spine in two. Nevertheless, his tired eyes swam across Shelley and he found it immensely hard to hold them open. It felt like they were meant to remain closed and he violated their right to do so the more he resisted. The battle went on for a long time, long enough to ironically worsen his state of sleepiness and his personal eyewatch on himself came crashing down against the huge waves of exhaustion. Alexander fell asleep without even knowing about it.

His sleep was dreamless and he woke up after half an hour, sweaty and disoriented. He sat up with a pained groan, realised the book fell down on the carpeted floor from where it rested open on his chest, and slowly picked it up, almost falling down after it when his head somersaulted sideways. Through angry coughs he stood up, draping the soft blanket over his frail shoulders, fully covering his body in the gentle drapery, and headed upstairs to his room. 

He arrived in a freezer. It was the exact moment he remembered his foolish blunder -- he left the window open for god knows how long. The stove wasn't even heated. Alexander cursed himself and smashed the window closed too harshly for his hand's liking. He whined and dropped himself on the bed again, tangling inwards. To his surprise, he fell asleep immediately.

-

When the shadow curtains of evening were drawn and the sun melted low on the burning horizon, Alexander told Josephine to prepare him a bath. The steamy hot water drank him down in one single gulp, caressing and kissing his body, washing the disease away, and the poet let an exhaled moan slip past his lips, eyes fluttering shut and body thawing under the ecstatic touch of the water. It was a release, a blessing, and Alexander never wanted to leave the gentle touch, the comforting heat. He sank below the surface several times, thinking, flirting with the idea of staying still just enough to black out. It sounded like a lullaby, made him feel like a baby in the warmth of mother's arms. He always emerged upwards.

When night fell over the quiet riverside, swallowing every naked sunbeam, stars peppered the black sky and the nocturnal world awakened, Alexander's room was still alive.   
The bath arrived like an army of salvation and molded him into a shape of strange serenity. His headache from oversleeping stepped down and the marshmallow tea, which he was drinking for a third time this day, did miracles. He felt adorable heat all over his body, in the middle of his chest the most. Mellow. It almost made him smile.

He was sitting by his desk with his spine curved into a ball, shoulders slumped over a book, reading prose with a single lit lamp on his right side. It irradiated the whole muted space, completing the tranquil, peaceful image. He felt like a part of some painting. 

It was also when he noticed the letter Josephine notified him about in the morning. He had to think for a little while until it clicked in his brain. He took it into his hand, examining the envelope. It was from Thomas.

Alexander was in no shape to wonder about the inside, it could possibly be anything, so he cut it open and read it out:

Dear Alexander,

Oliver told me what happened. There's a storm inside me which does not let me think, and I feel terrible. I'm sorrowful and I apologise to you for my behavior, in million years I could imagine such outcome. I was selfish, I should have said something, but I let you fall. I wish you well and hope we can talk soon. Please, take care.

Sincerely, Thomas Gray

When he read the lines, Alexander had a feeling it was supposed to move a thing inside him. But just like with Oliver, he stared at the paper with a blank expression, seeping void which clouded his eyes. If anything, it made him think. He didn't expect a letter. It was a nice gesture. He didn't see Thomas again then, or at least the letter indicated he did not. Alexander couldn't remember. In hindsight, it was probably for the better.

Oliver lent him his coat, he still had it in his drawer. It was out of nice material and very warm. Big. He was dripping all over the carriage, almost flipped it sideways with his violent shaking. Oliver asked him too many questions, avalanched him with too many sentences. Alexander heard exactly none of it and if he did, he doubted he would comprehend. He was out of it until they arrived at the same spot they picked him up from. Oliver told him he was in shock and needed to be warmed up as soon as possible. They left Adeline at the ball, big enough of an indicator for Alexander to know that Oliver was panicking. He felt like he was still under water, wasn't anxious about it though. Even now, he was still confused about the whole situation, however, he could tell the signs that he was slowly sobering up. He remembered more and more each time he went back to it. And it was getting worse every time. 

It all dawned on him the very same night, when he was laying in the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was as if he woke up from a trance, everything was real again. Heavy and big. He couldn't fall asleep. His skin was burning, flesh and right hand pounding in a blade-stabbing pain. It was all too real out of sudden. He wanted to cry again. But there were no tears left for him to shed.

Now, he was numb. Drying out, yet still so very numb, it made no difference. Something was wrong inside him, he could feel it. He felt it so many times in the air, never inside himself though. It was the very same feeling a rabbit has before his neck is snapped. Silence before the storm. 


End file.
